The Papercut
by Spurnine
Summary: The Dok has an accident with a scalpel and the Major is there to kiss it better. Pairing: DokMajor


The Papercut (for Meggin)

It was not deep. In fact, it was so shallow that all it had _really_ done was remove the skin from the first joint up to the fingertips of the pads, exposing meat that was startlingly, alluringly white—the moment before it flooded red and began to run.

Had it been an incision done on a specimen, he would have prided himself on the evenness and cleanness of the edges, how perfectly the flayed skin had been peeled back—but as it was, the cut was not on any specimen. He had done a wonderful job of skinning the last two digits of his left hand, and all in one neat swoop—a dropped scalpel caught by its blade, and gravity doing all the rest.

He swore aloud, and spun around suddenly when the major's voice—timed so perfectly that it might have been rehearsed—called out, "My, my, Herr Doktor, what language!"

He strode casually towards the Doktor, his hands in his pockets and his face registering bland, almost gentle surprise when he noticed the other's hand.

"Herr Major!—" the Dok began, stammered reflexively, and stopped when the Major stepped up before him.

The Doktor held his hand gingerly, the warm blood going syrupy and sticky thought his gloves. The Major regarded the Dok's flayed fingers with renewed interest, when the blood was readily noticeable.

The Doktor attempted to close his hand into a protective fist when the Major held out his own hand.

"Come," the commander said. "Let me see it."

"It's nothing—just a scratch—gone in a moment—" the Doktor stammered, and tried again, in vain, to glove one malformed hand more deeply within the other. The blood welled between his fingertips and began to run down his wrists.

The Major overrode the Doktor's protests with one smirk.

"Doktor, _present_," he murmured, and in his soothing tone, the order sounded almost like a request.

The Doktor, staring down into the Major's smiling eyes, could almost believe that his intentions were gentle. But his gaze dropped to his feet as he lowered his hands.

He heard the Major's gasp, only gently mocking, "And have you decided, now, to dissect yourself, starting with your hands? Or else you have finally decided on corrective surgery, and wish to perform it first-hand?"

The Doktor flinched almost imperceptibly at that last remark, and closed his eyes against the sight of his deformed and bleeding hand held in the Major's perfect plump palm. His own fingers looked spindly and gnarled and unnatural, compared to the Major's—the ring and little finger curling perfectly, independently, and without the impediment of fused skin. That familiar cold wave of dread, of self-loathing, swept over him and left a cold sweat prickling his skin, and a leaden weight in his stomach. Next, another joke, he knew, a gibe less gentle this time and more cutting. Or perhaps the Major would take the tips of his fused fingers and "fix" the problem for him—rip them apart, down to their base joint. The leaden weight in the Doktor's gut rolled itself over roughly, and he felt the excitement writhe through his innards like maggots.

The Major made a gentle, chiding cluck, and the Dok tensed when he felt him peeling away the sodden glove.

"I recall you explaining one of the problems with chipped vampires being that they bleed overmuch," the Major said, offhandedly, almost casually. A moment later, the Doktor felt the Major's own bared fingertips probing around his palm, lingering only at the base of his bloodied fused fingers.

"Something about them having a superabundance of blood in the place of other bodily fluids."

His short, thick fingers—his thumb and his index, the Doktor could tell—encircled his own at their base, and moved upwards in one smooth, tight, torturously slow motion.

The Doktor stood shaking and under a chill sweat, expecting with a sickly eagerness what was to come next.

But what came startled the Doktor's eyes wide: he felt the Major blow onto his bloodied fingertips, closed in the ring of his own fingers, and touched them with his tongue.

The Doktor jerked once, and began trembling all over with renewed energy.

The Major fixed him with a perfectly, sinfully innocent glance before sliding his bleeding fingertips into his mouth, once, and pulling back to make an appreciative sound, and repeating the action. His tongue undulated wetly against the fingers, drawing off blood, and when he swallowed, the slick sliding motion made the Doktor's mouth open into a surprised little 'O' of pleasure.

"Herr—Herr Major—" he ventured again. He dared not move his fingers or his hand; the subtle pressure the Major applied to his fingers was warning enough of what would come if he pulled away.

He was stuck, then, and could do nothing but stand trembling under the onslaught of the Major's tongue.

He could feel him probing the wound with his tongue's tip, lapping in uneven, light strokes—an easy pace, a well-fed cat lapping milk from a saucer, or else a lion mouthing his bloodied paws after a kill. And occasionally the Major would swallow, or pucker his lips just slightly, and the wet hot insides of his mouth would contract around his captured fingers. The Doktor choked down whimpered moans.

The Major made a gentle, contented sound high in his throat, and pulled back smoothly, pursing his lips over the Dok's fingertips, and parting from them with a last lap. He raised his blue eyes to the Doktor's face, his smile now rather cattish, rather flirtatious.

"It has—stopped bleeding—Herr Major—"

"I see." His smile did not waver. "And only look! It is all better."

He was gentle, all slowness and care, as he removed an immaculate handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the Doktor's gleaming hand—blood and saliva—carefully, rubbing the two deformed fingers through the cloth with tenderness that made the Doktor's knees shake.

"And there, now. Look! Good as new."

He smiled up at the Doktor sweetly, and withdrew his hand, leaving the Doktor standing there, naked hand outstretched.

The Major's chuckled laughter and retreating footfalls rang off the walls resoundingly.

The Doktor, meanwhile, was left wondering if the Major would have been so quick to lick the blood off any other part of his anatomy.

He wanted to find out.


End file.
